


Turning

by widget285



Category: Troy (2004)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-27
Updated: 2004-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/widget285/pseuds/widget285
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Jai

 

 

 

 

****

Spring

"Patroclus!"

A woman's voice, high and shrill echoed through the courtyard, but Achilles paid it no mind. He had no time for matters that did not concern him. He remained as he was, his body bent over the sword resting in his lap, the cool metal prickling his skin even through the rough woven tunic. He pulled the whetstone along the blade's edge in a single, fluid glide, the low rasp the only other sound to be heard and then repeated the motion upon the other edge. The rhythm was a familiar one, the slide-scrape-turn, slide-scrape-turn and he found it oddly soothing, The sharpening of the blade, he had long since learned was not unlike the training of the body. Bronze and flesh, both instruments to be forged and honed with the greatest care. And when the call to battle came, to be wielded with deadly precision.

Achilles carried out this ritual every morning though there was no need. As yet, there had been no battle to dull his blade, and no rust would dare to mar its perfection. Still he maintained the practice with the single-minded devotion that other men reserved for the gods.

He turned his head and spat, as if to remove the sour aftertaste that the thought conjured. Achilles cared little for the gods, jealous, spiteful creatures that they were; only a fool would entrust himself to their whims. He made the obeisance that was expected of him, of course. He went to the temple and offered libations and prayers, but it was a hollow gesture, made solely for his mother's sake. She said that he was beloved by the gods. She said that a great destiny lay before him, and Achilles could feel the truth of her words, singing through his veins like his life's blood. But it was not the gods who would make it so, but Achilles himself. Let other men low like cattle before the priests as they muttered incantations and spilled entrails into gleaming brass basins. Achilles would trust in his sword and his shield and in hard won muscle. War was his craft, his profession, his one true religion.

A shadow fell across him then and Achilles looked up into the anxious face of a woman. She was neither young nor old, neither fair nor unsightly, and Achilles was already turning away, annoyed by her interruption, when she spoke.

"Please..."

Achilles looked up at her again, this time noticing the way her hands, as weathered and worn as his own, twisted in the folds of her skirt. "What?"

She took a startled step backward at the harshness of his tone. "Please..." she said again, her voice low and hesitant. "I am looking for my charge, a boy of thirteen summers. Have you seen him?"

Achilles frowned, his irritation all the greater for having been disturbed over such a triviality. As he opened his mouth to reply, his eye caught a flicker of movement within the shadows of a nearby doorway.

"I have not. Did he steal something?"

Another flicker of movement. The woman's expression turned to shock. "Oh no! He's a good lad!"

"Well, I'm sure he'll turn up then." Achilles bent over his sword again and returned to his task, the dismissal unmistakable. The shadow hovered over him for a moment longer, wavering, before the woman took her leave. Achilles pulled the whetstone along the blade, slide-scrape-turn, slide-scrape-turn, as her footsteps faded away.

"You can come out now," Achilles said, eyes still focused on the sword in his lap. "She's gone."

The courtyard remained silent save for the rasp of the whetstone on metal until finally it was joined by the softer sound of footfalls drawing close. Achilles looked up then and the sight that greeted him was more or less what he'd expected. The boy was of middling height though there was a lankiness to his build that suggested he'd not yet come into his full height. His expression was openly curious rather than wary and he moved with more grace than most boys his age.

Achilles' gaze returned to his sword. "So, what were you running from?" he asked, some of his earlier irritation fled. "A beating?"

"No, my tutor."

"Learning is not a penance," Achilles replied, amused despite himself.

"It feels that way to me," the boy answered. His shadow drew closer, blocking some of the light from the sun that was only now cresting the outer walls of the citadel. "My mother would have me be a scholar but that is not my wish."

"What is your wish, little one?" Achilles could almost feel the boy stiffen at the epithet.

"I would become a warrior," he said, all youthful pride.

"What says your father?"

"My father is dead."

Achilles nodded but did not look up. "The gods say we should obey our parents."

"I don't think the gods care one way or the other."

The casual blasphemy made Achilles' head jerk up sharply and he found himself studying the boy more closely. In truth he was but a few years Achilles' junior, but those years were telling. An almost girlishly pretty face, cheeks still soft and rounded with childhood. But it was the intensity in those gray eyes, implacable will couched within a delicate faade, that made Achilles pause.

"You don't believe the gods guide us?" Achilles asked at last, curious as to how the boy would respond.

The boy shrugged then dropped to the ground beside him so they were eye to eye. "I think they probably have more on their minds than whether or not I spend the morning listening to Diodotas prattle on about history. Besides, wouldn't the gods prefer that I honor my father by following his path?"

Achilles felt his lips twitch. "I am no philosopher but I can think of no greater calling than that of the sword."

The boy nodded and excitement suddenly seemed to bubble up from within him. "You're Achilles, aren't you? I've heard the guards speak of you. They say you must be blessed by the gods for no man has yet to best you at arms even though you are little more than a boy yourself."

Much to his surprise, Achilles was more amused than irritated by the observation. He gave a snort of laughter then carefully laid his sword aside. "Most of the guards have grown fat and lazy. They lack discipline. Besting them is no great trial."

The boy's eyes flashed, flaring bright like the scared fires in the temple. His hand shot out to grasp Achilles' arm. "Would you teach me?"

The request was unexpected. Achilles shook his head but before he could speak, the boy's hand tightened about his arm and words began to tumble out of his mouth. "You are the greatest warrior in all of Greece, in perhaps all the world. Surely my mother could not deny me were I to become the apprentice of the great Achilles. Please, let me study with you."

The boy's face was alight with expectation and yearning his hand was very warm where it rested upon Achilles' arm. Achilles knew he should refuse. He had neither need nor desire for a student. Achilles had always stood alone. Some called him prideful because of it, contemptuous of his willful determination to stand apart, to stand above. Achilles did not consider it pride, but his right. After all, if none were his equal, why should they stand at his side? Achilles opened his mouth to refuse and then he looked at this boy scrawny and untried with hope blossoming in his eyes, and he felt something stir, some...kinship that he couldn't even begin to fathom. And perhaps...perhaps, the gods had had a hand in this after all in bringing this boy to him.

"Please?"

When he opened his mouth to speak, it was not a refusal, but a question that came forth. "And what name would I give to this apprentice of mine?"

The boy smiled at him and his face could have outshone Apollo's golden chariot. "Patroclus."

****

Summer

Achilles circled slowly, his eyes never leaving his opponent as he waited and watched in anticipation. The sign, when it came was almost imperceptible, just the faintest twitch of the right shoulder, but it was sufficient. Within the space of a heartbeat, Achilles had raised his sword to effortlessly block the swing aimed at his upper arm. Pivoting, he put his weight behind his sword, driving his opponent's downward, leaving his upper body exposed. Another pivot and Achilles' sword was swinging upwards to take advantage of the weakness, but before his sword could connect, his opponent was dancing smoothly away and out of reach.

It was, however a temporary retreat. His opponent lunged suddenly, the tip of his sword aimed at Achilles' belly. He swept his sword to block the blow, but in doing so, Achilles belatedly recognized that he had left his own torso exposed. His opponent was quick to exploit this opening and only due to instincts honed by endless hours of practice enabled him to bring his sword up in time to block the blow. Their swords met with bone jarring force and they stood chest to heaving chest, their faces close enough to feel each other's breath as it ghosted, warm and moist across cheeks flushed by exertion. Achilles dipped his head, a brief acknowledgement of his challenger's skill. Patroclus beamed back at him over their crossed swords.

And then they broke apart and the fight began in earnest once more, the ringing sound of clashing metal carried on the afternoon breeze.

In the five years since Patroclus had asked to be his student, others had begun to gravitate towards Achilles as his reputation as a swordsman without equal had spread. With time, he had reluctantly come to accept their camaraderie and the Myrmidons had repaid him with a devotion that would have been the envy of any god. Shield brothers, comrades-in-arms, boon companions, they were to him, but never students. Only Patroclus had been accorded that distinction. Though the others were skilled warriors and fiercely loyal to a man, none were as esteemed as Patroclus. Only Patroclus had won the right to stand at Achilles' side.

The noonday sun beat mercilessly down upon them, the breeze coming off the ocean nearby doing little to alleviate the terrible, grinding heat. The others had retired to their tents in search of respite, but Achilles and Patroclus battled on, their combat shifting from playful to solemn and back again as the mood took them. Achilles could feel the sweat crawling down his back and torso, could feel it dripping from his hair to sting his eyes. He shook his head to clear his vision, saw Patroclus do the same then raise his hand to push sweat damp locks away.

It was an unconscious gesture, but it provided the moment of distraction that Achilles needed. Even as Patroclus lowered his hand, Achilles twined his foot around Patroclus' left ankle and pulled. His balance lost, Patroclus struggled to remain upright, even as Achilles pressed the advantage and shoved forward with all his strength. Patroclus toppled backwards, the force of his sudden fall sufficient to knock the breath from his lungs. By the time his vision cleared, Achilles stood above him, sword pointed at the vulnerable curve of Patroclus' neck glittering like liquid gold in the sun. Achilles looked down upon him, a satisfied smile tracing his lips.

Patroclus sighed, but bowed his head in surrender and when Achilles extended his hand, Patroclus allowed himself to be pulled upright. For five years he had tried to best Achilles on the field of battle, but had never succeeded, though he had come closer than most. He returned Achilles' smile without rancor or reservation before coming to stand at Achilles' side, the place that was his and his alone.

They retreated to Achilles' tent. The interior was dim and pleasantly cool compared to the blistering heat outside and Achilles dropped contentedly into one of the chairs near the table, grateful for the brief reprieve.

Patroclus poured a goblet of watered wine from the flagon at the table's center and handed it to Achilles. Achilles had attempted to convince Patroclus that he should not wait upon him. Every time he told Patroclus that he did not need to serve him, the other man simply replied "I know," gave him a patient smile, then continued carrying out whatever task he'd been engaged with when Achilles had interrupted him. Finally Achilles had abandoned his efforts entirely.

Achilles gazed at Patroclus over the rim of his goblet as Patroclus poured himself a measure of wine. He watched as hands once soft and pale, now darkened and carrying hard won calluses, moved with an easy grace that was his alone. Feeling Achilles' eyes upon him, Patroclus looked up and gave him a smile that outshone the sun overhead.

"You did well today," Achilles said, his eyes never leaving his companion. Patroclus drank deeply from his goblet and once more Achilles admired the curve of his throat, unconsciously graceful and strong like its owner. As Achilles had predicted, the thin, bony lad had grown tall, and while not as broadly built as others in Achilles' cohort, his body was as sturdy and supple as a well tended sapling, and he could wield a sword with uncommon skill. Yes, Patroclus was worthy of standing at his side. "You almost beat me."

Patroclus met his gaze, his smile turning wistful. "I shall never beat you. You are Achilles, greatest of all warriors."

Achilles gave a disdainful snort then returned to his goblet. When he looked up, Patroclus was watching him with eyes the color of gathering storm clouds. With great deliberation, Patroclus abandoned his goblet and walked slowly around the table to stand behind Achilles.

Achilles' eyes tracked his movements as he had his sword during their combat, until he vanished from his line of sight. He closed his eyes then as Patroclus' hands came to rest upon his shoulders and began to knead muscles knotted tight from exhaustion, warming the skin beneath his palms. Patroclus' touch was light and sure and it soothed him more profoundly than heady wine or the dulcet notes plucked from a lyre. Achilles body relaxed into that gentle, knowing caress.

"I speak only the truth, Achilles." Patroclus said at last, his voice as soft as a breeze. "You are truly beloved by the gods."

Achilles reached up to still Patroclus' hands. Clutching them both within his own, he raised one and then the other to his lips to press a reverent kiss upon sun warmed skin.

"Perhaps it is not the gods I would have love me best."

He felt Patroclus' hands go still within his grasp. Achilles opened his eyes then to gaze at the other man. Patroclus' head was bowed above him, his hair falling like a tawny, silken veil around his face that hid his features in shadow. His face was as expressionless as carved marble, but his eyes were alive, glittering like starlight and then in a single, fluid motion, Achilles was rising from his chair, turning to face him.

Feeling oddly uncertain, Achilles raised his hand and cradled Patroclus' face. His skin was unexpectedly soft as Achilles ran the pad of his thumb along the curve of his cheek down to the hollow below until it caught upon the faint roughness of newborn beard. He watched as Patroclus' eyes fluttered closed, heard the sound of his breath as it hitched and stuttered in response to Achilles' touch.

Achilles had been a warrior since he had been old enough to wield a sword; the heft and weight and sensation of cold metal against his palm familiar above all else. This, however, was truly alien to him. Achilles knew warfare. He carried the knowledge of it in every sinew, in the very blood that flowed through his veins. Tenderness, however, was but a distant memory, something long ago discarded in favor of more bloody occupations. So it was that hands long accustomed to grasping the hilt of a sword or the shaft of a spear learned gentleness anew.

When Patroclus opened his eyes once more, his gaze was warm and clear day and his smile tender. He reached out tentatively and laid his hand against the nape of Achilles' neck, fingers twisting in the hair that was tangled and damp with sweat before he pulled Achilles' head down into a kiss.

Achilles knew this, this slip and slide of lips, the soft moans and broken, gasping breaths. It was familiar and yet not. His couplings with the various whores of Larissa had tended to be frenzied affairs, brief bursts of intense pleasure adequate to slake his hunger. There had been other occasions, wild nights of drinking and debauchery after which he had more often than not awakened face down upon the cushions with some unfamiliar bed partner lying equally naked beside him with her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder. He tended to remember little of those hazy nights, save the lingering sense of satiation and the ghostly echo of lips and hands and warm, slick skin.

This, he knew was different. Heat and pressure magnified, implacable strength and fingers gouging deeply with force enough to bruise. Gentleness giving way to urgent need.

They collapsed on to the nest of cushions that served for a bed, limbs tangling as they fell. Garments were hastily discarded to expose bare flesh and hard muscle to curious covetous fingers. Patroclus smiled down upon him, his expression full of wonder as Achilles stretched out upon the cushions beneath him. Patroclus' hands charted his body, his touch trailing fire in its wake like Prometheus fleeing Mount Olympus.

And then it was Achilles' turn to explore flesh both familiar and dazzlingly unknown. The history of his apprenticeship was writ upon Patroclus' body in flesh and blood and it was a tale more enthralling than any cast in stone. Achilles hands traced the memory of the five years they had spent together first as mentor and student, boy and man, then as shield-brothers and friends.

Achilles' hands slid along Patroclus' sides, stopping when they found a ridge of raised flesh. He traced the scar, remembering its gifting from a well aimed spear badly blocked. Patroclus had been more cautious after that and had never left his vulnerable sides so poorly protected. Achilles hand went higher until he found another blemish, this one from the edge of a shield where it had bitten into his shoulder blade and had left behind a crescent shaped scar. Patroclus had learned well that a shield was as much a weapon as an instrument of defense that day. And there, on his right bicep, a long smooth scar from the slash of a sword. There were others as well, thin pink scars that were barely visible, others that went deeper, their puckered, knotted flesh standing out like signposts. Each marked an injury garnered and a lesson learned. Each marked a moment shared between them, another step that brought them closer to this place and time.

Achilles gazed up at Patroclus and for the first time, it was Achilles who surrendered.

****

Autumn

Achilles stood upon the shore and gazed upon the mighty citadel of Troy before him. Its gleaming walls reached heavenward, stained a vibrant red-gold, embracing the last sparks of light cast off from Apollo's chariot even as the dusky folds of Selene's cloak began to envelop the sky. It was said that the citadel was impregnable, that her walls had never been breached and Achilles could well imagine that it was true. They had come to lay siege to the city, but it would not be taken by catapult and ballista. Nor would it be taken by prayer, he thought derisively as his eyes caught sight of the priests in their elaborate raiment erecting their altars and casting augurs.

Achilles' eyes swept the broad plain that rested between the shore and the citadel where tents were being erected and cooking fires began to smudge the sky with dark plumes of smoke. Off to one side he could see Agamemnon as he swaggered through the camp, his crown glittering in the fading sunlight, flanked, as always by his advisors. At his left was wise old Nestor, king of Pylos, whose skill at arms had not diminished with age; at his right his brother Menelaus, king of Sparta and husband--perhaps cuckold--of Helen.

Helen of Sparta, daughter of Leda of Sparta, sister of Clytemnestra, of Castor and Pollux. It was said that her beauty outshone the sun itself, that no mere mortal had ever been formed with such perfection. Spirited away by the Trojans, either by force or by consent, it was she who had brought them here to the plains of Troy.

It was, of course, madness to fight a war over a woman, no matter how beautiful, but Achilles knew well that it was not Menelaus' honor that they served, but Agamemnon's greed. Agamemnon had long coveted Troy, the one jewel that had always remained beyond his reach. The city was prosperous, its earth fertile and its adjacent sea abundant, but its warriors were fierce and her walls could not be breached. So Agamemnon had waited and hungered and built his great army, preparing for the opportunity to crush Troy beneath the heel of his sandal as he had so many cities before it.

And now, that time had come. Agamemnon had assembled the mightiest fleet and the greatest army ever amassed. Though it take years, Troy would fall.

Achilles cared nothing for Agamemnon's ambition. Neither Menelaus' lost honor nor Helen's legendary beauty moved him. The promise of plunder was of no consequence. It was destiny that brought Achilles to the walls of Troy. Achilles fought for his own ends and for his own glory. The rest was little more than politics and he would happily leave that to generals and kings.

Achilles watched until Agamemnon and his advisors disappeared inside their tent before turning his attention to the camp of the Myrmidons. The campfire had been lit and several of his comrades were taking their rest beside it, but it was Patroclus that his eyes sought out first. Even from this distance, Achilles knew him, could recognize the strong young body where it stood gilded by firelight. Patroclus turned and Achilles knew that he had been seen as well.

"Hail, Achilles."

Achilles turned sharply to find Odysseus standing before him. Although his words were formal and his expression bland, Achilles thought that he caught a hint of mockery in the other man's eyes.

"Odysseus," he replied, his manner equally formal. Neither spoke for a moment but remained as they were, each taking the measure of the other anew. Of all the warlords assembled by Agamemnon, it was Odysseus of Ithaca that Achilles admired most. Few were so skilled at arms, and none were so cunning at strategy. For all that, Achilles remained wary of the fox. Odysseus was entirely too clever and too perceptive to be trusted entirely.

"I am glad you came," Odysseus said at last. "You and your...cousin," Odysseus added with a tilt of his head in the direction of the Myrmidon tents.

Achilles' eyes narrowed, ears prickling at the inflection with which Odysseus had uttered that word.

Yes, Odysseus was far too perceptive for Achilles' liking.

"It was my...cousin who encouraged me to come despite my dislike for Agamemnon."

Odysseus nodded. "Then we owe him our thanks twice over. This war will not be easily won for all that Agamemnon boasts that it will. We have need of warriors such as he. We have need of you, Achilles, though Agamemnon would be the last to admit to it."

Achilles gave a short grunt of agreement. There was no love lost between the two of them to be sure. Agamemnon had made little effort to hide his antipathy towards Achilles; Achilles, in return, made none at all. But at present they had need of one another: Agamemnon of Achilles' sword; Achilles of Agamemnon's war. Were he a philosopher, Achilles might even have been amused by the irony of that. But he was not. He was a warrior and such mordant thoughts were better left to clever men like Odysseus to chew upon. That one, at least, had the teeth for it.

"Tomorrow we will go forth to the walls of Troy," Odysseus said, his gaze shifting to the citadel that seemed to glow in the dying light. "Will you share a goblet of wine with me, friend?"

Achilles shook his head. "This night I will spend with my men. I owe them that."

Odysseus' eyes flickered towards the camp of the Myrmidons. "Of course. And give my thanks to your cousin, brave Achilles," he said with a faint nod of his head and a faint smile. "You are all most welcome here."

Achilles watched as Odysseus turned on his heel and walked away, his body soon swallowed up by the activity of the main camp, alone with his turbulent thoughts. Once more, his eyes returned to the citadel bathed in shades of fire and blood as darkness surrounded it and eventually consumed it.

In the gloaming, Achilles' mind quieted at last. Let Agamemnon and his advisors conspire. Let Odysseus play his tricks. Let the priests read their entrails and cast their bones; Achilles needed no such auguries to see the future. Troy would fall and Achilles' name would live on.

With that thought, Achilles made his way towards camp where the Myrmidons--and Patroclus--awaited him.

****

Winter

The funeral procession made its way slowly towards the newly built pyre. Achilles watched as the bearers climbed the ladder and then with the greatest solemnity laid the body of Patroclus upon it. It was a moonless night, bitter cold and dark, save for the stars that glittered above, heedless of the mortal grief so far beneath them, much like the gods themselves.

Patroclus' lifeless body had been borne away from the battlefield and carried to the tent of Achilles. Achilles' blood had frozen in his veins and his vision blurred when his eyes fell upon the blood spattered cuirass and knew it to be his own. Patroclus, ever loyal, had gone to battle in his stead, Achilles' honor more dear to him than his own life.

_"I told you how to fight but I never told you why to fight."_

_"I fight for you."_

Those words echoed in the vaults of Achilles' mind. Never had he imagined that it would come to this. Before he had left Larissa, his mother had prophesied that Troy would mean Achilles' death. _Your glory walks hand-in-hand with your doom,_ she had said. Even now he could see the sorrow in her eyes as she spoke those words, could feel her hand, as fragile as a bird's wing where it rested upon his chest. Still Achilles had gone. Doom it might be, but it was his destiny as well. Greatness called to Achilles and it was beneath the walls of Troy that he would find it. His death was a small price to pay for immortality.

But he had never weighed Patroclus' life in the accounting. He had never imagined that Patroclus, beloved of Achilles, would be felled in his place. If the gods did exist, their cruelty knew no bounds.

The Myrmidons had tended their fallen comrade. They had bathed his body and dressed him in his armor. They had lit candles and held vigil beside him until Achilles had bade them leave so that he might remain alone. They had obeyed without question, just as they had always done.

Patroclus was as beautiful in death as he had been in life. His face had not been marred and the grievous wound that had stolen his life was hidden from view. Achilles could almost pretend that he was merely sleeping, that the color in his cheek came from within and not from the flickering light of the candles placed beside his bier. And when he cradled the beloved face in his hand, he could almost believe that the flesh beneath was still warm to the touch, not cold like the chill that was stealing through Achilles' veins and embedding itself in his bones.

He had stayed beside Patroclus' body for a time that seemed endless and yet as fleeting as a heartbeat. It was Odysseus who came to him and told him that all was made ready. His voice had been gentle and his gaze watchful and unexpectedly sympathetic. Achilles had risen slowly and then watched as his brethren returned and bore Patroclus' body from the tent towards the waiting pyre.

Odysseus handed Achilles a torch. His body moving as slowly as that of an aged man, he walked to the pyre's edge and then he set it alight. The fire spread rapidly, greedy, rapacious, consuming all in its path until it reached the prize so long out of reach. It would not be quenched until all was ash and ruin.

From where he stood, Achilles could see Agamemnon standing amongst his generals and kings. The other man watched as the pyre was engulfed in flames. His expression was serene but his eyes glowed in the ruddy light.

The ice in Achilles' veins had reached his heart at last, covering it with a frost as impenetrable as Troy's fabled walls. He turned away. The heat of the pyre did not reach, nor the breath of the night wind. They only served to deepen the chill that had taken hold of him from within.

"My armor," he said, his voice as harsh and brittle as ice. "Tomorrow, Troy will learn what it is to mourn."

Achilles strode away from the pyre, the Myrmidons falling in step behind him. Achilles did not look back. He did not wish to see the way Agamemnon's eyes glittered in satisfaction nor the way Odysseus' darkened with compassion. Agamemnon's machinations he could endure, but he would have no man's pity.

And he would not look upon the pyre. Patroclus, beloved of Achilles, was no more.

He was Achilles. Glory awaited him beneath the walls of Troy.

He was Achilles. He was destined to stand alone.

****

Finis

 


End file.
